26.2 - The Incredible True Story of the Three Men Who Shaped The London Marathon. John Bryant
it was his father’s idea. He knew a man called Ferrari, who did watch and clock repairs, and soon Dorando was signed up as his apprentice. But Dorando had seen his brother Antonio wither over a job that kept him imprisoned; now he too found himself hunched for endless hours doing repetitive work.
‘I can’t stand it,’ he admitted, and he made a bid for freedom. Bur he still harboured the dream of making a mark there in Carpi, and when a wealthy new shop owner moved to the town, he seized his opportunity. The name was Pasquale Melli and he was well known locally as the manufacturer of the famous Nazzani sweets, a company renowned throughout the whole of the Emilia region for the quality of their chocolate.
Melli was a real gentleman with a distinguished and elegant wife. He set himself and his family up in a fine shop just on the edge of the piazza. It was decorated throughout with sumptuous red velvet and with white seats, and there they sold chocolates of a kind never before available in Carpi. One of the specialities was an exquisite chocolate drink, but of course the only people who could afford such delicacies were the gentry. They could pay for home delivery too, because when they ordered blocks of chocolate, sweets and pastries, they wanted the luxuries delivered to their doorstep.
Fourteen-year-old Dorando got a job with Melli, who needed a shop boy. There, he learned how to whisk zabaglione and he enjoyed putting the eggs and sugar into his mouth – now there would be no more crusts of bread for him. He busied himself delivering parcels and packages, wore a smart white overall and apron, and congratulated himself on finding his ideal job. He had the freedom to roam the city streets and he could eat as much as any boy might want.
His job would take him to the doors of the great villas that stood around Carpi, where he would meet the men and women who lived inside, smile at them and make the extra effort to try to deliver items on time. Nothing seemed too much for the energetic delivery boy and he took huge pleasure in what he was doing. Often, he had to deliver a package of luxury pastries to the station to be taken off the train for a customer further up the line.
On one occasion, so they say in Carpi, he got to the station to find that the train had already left for Reggio, which was nearly 15 miles away. Dorando actually saw the train slowly pulling out of the station and thought about running back to the shop to tell the owner what had happened, but then he changed his mind, whipped off his apron and set out to run the 15 miles, package in hand. When he arrived at the town centre, he took a handkerchief, dipped it into a horse trough and wiped away his sweat. He smoothed down his hair and presented himself at the door with the package of confectionery.
The door was answered by a maid, who told him to wait to see if there was a repeat order or a message for the shop. Then the master of the house arrived, intrigued by the hand delivery. He scribbled a note, pressed a tip into Dorando’s hand and the boy set out for the return journey. Back in Carpi, the shopkeeper was at first amazed and annoyed, but when he heard what had happened, he was to dine out on the tale for years. Signor Melli realised, too, what Dorando’s father had always known: this boy was very special.
The seasons changed and Dorando grew stronger. But he didn’t grow any taller; he was always small, standing just 5 feet 3 inches tall. For him, the shop and the piazza – Victor Emmanuel Square – seemed to be the centre of all life in Carpi.
In 1903, there was a huge gathering in the piazza. A statue was to be erected to a general, Manfredo Fanti, and to celebrate the event thousands of gymnasts came from all corners of Italy to give a display. Dorando was dazzled by their appearance, their agility and their strength. With all the sudden enthusiasm of a 17-year-old, he decided that sport was the thing: here was a way that he might make his mark.
His brother Ulpiano had already joined the local sports club. He found that waving Indian clubs, the fashionable aerobic exercise, went down well with the girls. Also at that time, Italy, like the rest of Europe, was in the embrace of a huge cycling boom. Dorando and his friends would read about cycle races and talk to each other about their heroes; he was excited by the thought of bike racing, and so, like Ulpiano, he joined La Patria. He was young and strong, so perhaps he too could make a name for himself in Carpi as a cycle racer. Why not?
Some of the more well-to-do boys had bicycles of their own. Dorando would stand and stare at these machines; he would see the sparkling spokes and catch the smell of India rubber and freshly polished paint. He would run his fingers along the enamel of the tubing. Sometimes Signor Melli would give him a few sweets, and instead of eating them himself or sharing them with his younger brother Armando, Dorando would use them to bribe one of the boys who had a bike to let him try to cycle.
Even on the rough cobbled streets of Carpi, he learned to ride and he knew that somehow he had to get his hands on a bike. By saving his tips from deliveries, he found that he could hire a bike and take part in the races organised by La Patria in Modena, 20 miles or so from Carpi. It was here that Dorando had his first races and he loved them. His legs were already strong from his work as a messenger boy and he discovered that he was competitive at the sport.
Of course, the roads were rough, the tumbles were frequent and Dorando found that his small and lightweight body meant he was never going to beat some of the more powerful, bigger boys. Nevertheless, he did well enough, even though the bikes were crude and heavy. In one race, his chain broke, but he was not a boy to give up easily; he heaved the bike onto his shoulders and ran his way to the finish.
One afternoon, at the beginning of the autumn of 1904, Dorando stood at the door of the café looking out onto the square and watched as a crowd gathered to see a tall skinny man and his helpers walk around the piazza putting chalk marks on the cobbles. The man was Pericle Pagliani, a champion runner from Rome, he was told. ‘Here,’ the men said, ‘is the mighty Pagliani. He’s come to give a demonstration of running. He is the champion of all Italy – he can run like the wind.’
Dorando peered through the crowd. All the town had turned out and formed a huge circle, jostling for the best view, while allowing Pagliani enough room to run around his chalk marks. The word went round that he was going to run 10,000 metres.
Pagliani had circled the piazza for the second time when several of the boys thought it would be fun to join in, and within another couple of laps he had a little trail of them puffing, blowing, laughing and jostling, trying to keep up with him. Four laps later, most of the boys, red in the face and gasping for breath, found the pace far tougher than anything they had known during their games on the streets.
But Dorando was running easily. Away from the cumbersome bike he found his legs felt very light. He knew every cobble of this square and as he floated behind Pagliani, the crowd first of all started to laugh, but then the laughter turned to cheering.
As the run went on, Dorando drew up alongside Pagliani and grinned. But the champion gave him little more than a glance, his eyes fixed on his task. Then, as Pagliani’s friends yelled that there were only two laps to go, Dorando was still there running. As they passed the cheering, excited crowd, he eased smoothly and easily ahead and crossed the finishing line just before Pagliani.
The champion didn’t say a word; he refused to acknowledge Dorando’s existence and the errand boy stepped out of the square and went back to the shop. But others smiled at him and slapped him on the back.
‘Hey, Dorando,’ they shouted, ‘you can be a champion too!’
The crowd clapped and cheered for a few moments but already most of them were melting away. They had taken time out from their jobs – from the bars, the factories and the fields – and they seemed to disappear very quickly. Their disappearance may perhaps have had something to do with the fact that Pagliani’s helpers were roaming about the square with a bowl and a bucket asking for contributions to his training expenses. It was a deep and sobering shock for Dorando. Here was a man they’d applauded and cheered as the champion of all Italy – and now he was begging for money.
Dorando’s father had always drummed into him, ‘Never see yourself as a beggar. There’s always work even here in Carpi, but never, ever be a beggar.’ But here was Pagliani begging for money.
Dorando wished he had money with him so that he could put something